


I Want a Coffeeshop AU with You

by mydogfoundthechainsaw



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 14:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14978927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogfoundthechainsaw/pseuds/mydogfoundthechainsaw
Summary: By sticking himself alone with Floyd on visits to his daughter, Rick slowly realizes he's signed up for a lot more than he bargained for. Mostly told in transport rides to and from Zoe's. Featuring baking!Rick, soft!Floyd, and an adorable friendship with June.





	I Want a Coffeeshop AU with You

The fifth time Floyd — Deadshot for fuck’s sake he has to stop thinking of him like that — gets to visit his daughter, Rick successfully convinces the security detail to let him ride with Deadshot alone. He’s been asking since the second. Deadshot would actually lose by killing him, and he knows the type of man Floyd is. Family is be all end all and he fits somewhere in that picture by now. 

It’s quiet in the back seat for about half the drive, then Floyd coughs loudly.

“You went to all this trouble to get me alone. You gonna act on it?”

Floyd’s smile creeps up on him. Always does. This one, he decides, is predatory. 

“Two adults can enjoy silence together.” Something June taught him to enjoy, in a perfectly good way.

“Not according to my ex. Come on, you went through  _ all  _ that rouble. What’s on your mind?”

“They still have camera access.”

True, but Floyd doesn’t know how shitty they are, or that no one cares. The real problem is Floyd’s question. He can’t really answer it. 

“Maybe I just enjoy your company. That so hard o believe?”

Floyd chucks. “Whatever floats your boat man. Ain’t got time to judge.”

They go back to respective silences. Floyd, like he does every trip, closes his eyes, possibly meditating. It occurs to him he could ask if that perception was true, but he doesn’t want to disturb the ideation of Lawton as some sort of Zen master. Because there’s nothing else in the transport, he studies Floyd. Catalogs his moles, beard, follows the lines of his body down. He takes his time, telling the devil in his head it could be useful. (If he has to identifies Floyd’s body.) That thought gets shoved down. (But wouldn’t he like to see more of it?)

Nt like he hasn’t. Doesn’t remember it, of course, but that’s a habit long trained. Don’t look at your men for a second, in anyway that might let them know you’re a violation. Until Obama got rid of that prohibition.

He stops staring at Lawton. (Deadshot call him that for fuck’s sake). And starts thinking about his grocery list.

“Little tip Flagg, since I know you don’t get out much.” Floyd’s cracked one eye open, a sly grin on his face. “When you look at someone like that, don’t immediately transition to muttering about potatoes. Makes a guy feel like...a piece of meat.”

Floyd winks and sucks his teeth. Rick, meanwhile, feels how red he is almost instantly. Because these sort of things have never been his strong suit., what stumbles out is…”June gave me all these recipes for sweet potatoes. I need to try some.”

“Mm, look at this white boy trying to cook. You do own some seasoning, right?” Lawton laughs, rather fakely, then looks at him seriously. “Bring me some, with some flavor, and we’ll consider this forgotten.”

For a moment, he considers how he could conceivably sneak a pot of food to Lawton. He comes up with two good options before he realizes he’s been fucked with. Time to just address it. That’s what all his training and instinct tells him.

“I wasn’t...checking you out,” aware that the pause makes it seem like a lie, when it’s more of him not wanting to say the words aloud.

Lawton’s face scrunches up, like he wasn’t actually expecting that. It takes him a moment longer than it should to reply; Rick hates that he knows this.

“Hey, I’m a beautiful man, I understand.”

He might be, but he’s also dangerous and cold and so very masculine. So it makes sense, honestly, to check Lawton out. Just as long as that’s as far as it goes.

“And you should know having been married that you can look and not want.”

The reply takes him a second, but he’s proud of it. It’s suave and goes right for the jugular, dealing with Lawton’s marriage is a sure way to derail him. He still holds the power, he reasons, might as well not have something out that could come back to bite him. Waller’s mostly the threat on that end. 

(It doesn’t hurt that it gives a bit of relief, telling people he likes men. When he’d mentioned it to June, she related how the Enchantress had made her question her genderqueer identity, and Katana trying to set him up with cute guys — her definition mind you — had made him feel a bit more calm, a necessity in his world.)

Lawton nods, doesn’t change his face. “Not to judge,” he begins, and Rick cringes, waiting for the figurative blow and hating that someone he hated has that power, “but there are actual options for you to explore. That one guy, call sign Wolverine?”

“Thesen?” Thesen is attractive, but in a white, almost Aryan way. It makes him uncomfortable. 

“Yeah. he ain’t too bad. More up your alley, I think.”

So there are two options here. One, Floyd is admitting he also, on occasion, liked men in some way, or two, Floyd’s confident enough to acknowledge other men are attractive. Not that it matters. What really matters is the fact that Floyd has categorized his type. That says something.

“—not what you like? What about—”

Rick no longer feels this is a real situation. He must be asleep. Nothing terrible has happened in this dream yet, but it feels soft, he now realizes. Floyd Lawton, Deadshot, is not trying to set him up. He’s about to start to find an escape clause when the transport stops and two heavy knocks rap out. The dreamy feeling snaps. Fuck. it was real.

As they take him out, Lawton winks at him. He’s fucked.

While watching Lawton, he tries not to appreciate how good he is with his daughter. Tries not to consider if Lawton’s that way with his partners. June gave him a taste of something he didn’t know he wanted, and now he sees it everywhere. Zoe’s convinced she wants to wrestle, and is currently trying to review moves with her father. He handles her with care, almost like he does with Harley, and Rick respects his ability to chain up his power.

When the time’s up, the two of them, sweaty and exhausted, take long drinks of water. “When you coming next, Daddy?” Zoe asks.

Floyd looks at him, and he gives her the same answer he always does. Within the next two weeks. She nods,  and then, out of his periphery, he sees Floyd grin mischievously. His hackles go up, but it’s too late.

“And Rick here’s gonna help us out with some food.”

Technically, it wouldn’t go that much against protocol. It’d be considered “taking an active interest,” better serving his ability to prevent Floyd from escaping. Even without looking at Zoe’s face, he knows he’s going to do it. He actually enjoyed doing that with June, and wouldn’t mind taking Floyd up on the offer.

But it’s a terribly bad idea, for a myriad of reasons. He’s given up, somewhat, on distancing himself from the squad, but there’s accepting criminals as your team, possibly your family, while on missions, and baking in the kitchen with them and their kid. Especially when you might find one of them attractive, interesting. Waller doesn’t need to have anything more on him. She lost June (although he got to keep her and the fact that he won against Waller will always lighten his mood). She doesn’t need another way to keep him in line.

Zoe, however, doesn’t realize all of this. She just looks at him, somewhat expectantly, waiting for an answer. It comes to him, finally.

“She doesn’t want to waste her time with her daddy with me, Lawton, no matter how good the food might be,” he replies, then adds, only because Lawton also has a pouty face, “I’ll try to bring something for y’all to eat next time, how about that?”

The two of them discuss something without speaking, and Lawton nods. Escaped, somewhat. Lawton is a piece of shit with a grin as they leave that speaks volumes. 

In the ride back, it’s still just the two of them, and he wishes he could bring a set of headphones with him. Lawton lets the silence hang for ten minutes, and just when he thinks he’s escaped, the man coughs.

“So. What is your type then? Personality-wise, I think you want someone you can respect. Better than you at several things, not that that’s hard, but not willing to take you on your shit. Gotta understand your lifestyle…”

“Lawton, can we discuss literally anything else?”

“You’re the one who was looking.”

He sighs. Lawton is only going to give this up if he gives him a bone, and he definitely doesn’t need this spreading to the rest of the team. The fuck is enough, though.

“I’m not going with any guys you know.”

“Yeah. Most of them seem straight, if not just utter assholes. Well, have you tried any dating apps? Grindr doesn’t seem your style, maybe one of those boring monogamous long-term ones?”

Rick had tried downloading several of them, but potheads and/or rebellious, tatted and pierced crowd didn’t do it for him. He’d panicked and deleted all of them. It terrifies him that Lawton thinks he’d be okay with letting the man help his profile, wondering what he would swipe left on. 

“Not a fan. I’m good, Floyd,” he says, hoping the soft use of his name might help, “honestly. I’ve got people now, don’t need to have someone to fuck.”

The truth, and Lawton must register that, because he nods, slowly, and shuts up. Considering the squad his people, with June and a few of his old buddies from back in the day, is unsettling and clashes with his old views. But it’s true, and he’s not aching for anything, he tells himself. That has always worked.

Close to two weeks later, he finds himself in his kitchen, dishes everywhere, oven making him sweat, hands sticky, but the smell is overwhelming and amazing. He should’ve known June’s recipes would be a madhouse of instructions. Of course, she’s vacated their apartment, citing “research” at the library. He suspects she’s flirting with a librarian how often she goes. 

What he’s trying to make are apple sweet potato bacon turnovers. A lot of his favorite foods, all in a handheld package, but he neglected the fact that pastries are not his strong suit. None of them are the same size, which he feels Floyd will harass him about. Because he’s a masochist with a sweet tooth, he also started macaroons, ignoring the widespread advice that they could be difficult. He regrets it, but at least the squad has taught him to spread his attention thin.

In the end, they turn out. Nothing he’d be able to sell at a shop, but delicious all the same. He saves all the pistachio macaroons for June, and a few of the turnovers, but packages the rest — raspberry, blueberry and chocolate macaroons and turnovers, for others. 

Before he takes Floyd to see his daughter, he manages to slip each of the squad some of his work. It takes careful planning, an elaborate knowledge of the camera and other security systems, and a bit of a slight of hand. 

Harley almost melts when she bites into her dessert, and he’s not ready for how tight her hug will be next time they go out. Digger bites into his with caution, then abruptly shoves the whole thing in his mouth. Waylon won’t eat apples, for some weird reason, so he gets two macaroons.  He takes a bite of each and then saves them for later. Chato’s on a “no sweets” binge, but he savors each bite of the turnover. For Katana, Rick labels a box in the fridge and hopes no one gets to it first. 

Once again, he gets alone privileges with Floyd. This time, the guys on duty seem relieved when he asks. 

“Heard you’ve been giving out gifts. When do I get mine?”

Floyd looks appropriately sad and it freaks Rick out. He should also probably investigate this grapevine thing the squad has going on, because one of these days, it’s gonna turn out someone is psychic and reading all his very inappropriate thoughts. Not that he has many about the squad. But still. Everyone has those kind of thoughts.

“Does Zoe like blueberry or chocolate more? I’ve got two of the chocolates left.”

“Fruit. My girl’s healthy or some shit. Gimme one of those chocolates man.”

He stares at Floyd for a solid minute. Floyd’s smiling, but the smile of a man excited for dessert, not a man who’s fucking with Rick. He must realize that, as chained as he is, eating is exceedingly difficult. He thinks about asking, but also really wants to show off his handiwork. 

“We’re eating the rest in the house.”

Rick leans over and shoves the macaroon at Floyd’s lips. Floyd, who’s reflexes are apparently slow today, doesn’t open his mouth, so Rick looks even more the fool. After a second of this — he knows Floyd did it on purpose — Floyd takes a bite, and his lips brush Rick’s fingers. They’re grown men, he tells himself. Which makes it both more awkward and something they should be able to do without freaking out.

Floyd groans and licks his lips. There is no pang of disappointment in Rick that his fingers were not in the way. None. 

“Fuck man, I take back what I said about white people cooking. That’s heaven.”

A grin finds his way onto Rick’s face. 

“Thanks. I think June might hate me for how the kitchen looked, but it was her recipe.”

“The hell you still working here you can make food like that? Start a kitchen, make some shit. I’d buy it.”

That has floated in his mind before; Katana and June have both suggested it. He shrugs, because it’s so far off what he knows, he doesn’t have time to find out more. To distract from the conversation, he shoves another bite at Floyd. Because it’s a tiny macaroon, it's the last bite, and Floyd’s lips close over Rick’s fingers. His reflexes must also be slow, because he leaves his fingers there for a second too long and glances up at Floyd’s eyes.

He snatches his hand back. Floyd chuckles around the macaroon and licks his lips when he’s finished.

“I don’t bite, Flagg. Usually.”

“And I don’t need to know your kinks, Lawton,” he replies, which, of course, just makes him wonder about Lawton’s kinks — he guesses the man is sweet if he actually likes his partner, a bit vanilla — so he needs to get off this track, “now, was that too much cream inside? I tried a bunch of different ways.”

Floyd lets him get off the topic and while it’s a useful conversation about cooking, he resolves to delete the entire ride from his memory. When they’re close to their destination, Floyd sighs. 

“You really should consider a shop after all of this is done. A little patisserie, like in France. God I loved just wandering into them and buying shit. Local, you could brand it all about veterans, Americana. You’d get customers.”

“And you could run the front with amazing efficiency and Katana could waitress and Digger could harass every customer and Harley could play music Wednesday nights?” he says, rather cruelly. “I’m not getting out of this, Floyd. And I wouldn’t know how to do all of it anyways.”

Floyd opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, but they’re there, and he’s won. He jumps out, shoves the conversation behind him. 

The next hour he spends listening to Zoe and Floyd argue about what dish they can make. It’s not going anywhere, mostly because Floyd has outlandish ideas and Zoe really hates ham. Apparently his turnovers have ignited a love for cooking in Zoe, and while it’s a confidence booster that his work has resulted in this, he’s getting quite sick of the back and forth. Finally, when Floyd suggests, yet again, they should mix sriracha with pasta sauce and a bunch of other shit, he coughs. 

“So I was thinking you could…” he trails off as they look at him. Probably forgot he was even there. 

“Zoe, I say we make whatever the man says,” Floyd preemptively says, looking at Zoe for confirmation.

That’s how he ends up in the kitchen, ordering Floyd and Zoe around. He refuses to actually touch anything; Waller doesn’t need that on his file. Floyd tends to argue with a lot of his suggestions, to which Zoe looks at him, sighs, and makes Floyd do what Rick wants. It’s a decent system. 

They end up with a variation of curry with a mango dessert. He knows they’re running short on time, but with the guys he’s got working, they’ve got a few extra minutes to burn. Zoe pulls three bowls from the cabinet, and before he can get the words out, Floyd’s filled each one. He hands Rick one, a smile on his face. 

“Chef has to eat, house rules.” 

Floyd’s hands linger by the spoon too long, and for a second, he wonders if Floyd’s about to feed him a bite. He doesn’t, thank god, because Rami is hovering by the door, probably having smelled the food. Instead, he stands by the counter and watches Zoe and Floyd savour their curry. 

Not for long, of course. Pretty soon, Floyd’s back in chains, and they’re in the cramped transport together. 

“Told ya I’d get you to help out in the kitchen.”

“You were being a shit on purpose?” He has the sudden urge to elbow Floyd in the guts, but the cameras.

He expects Floyd to laugh, like he always does when he’s won, but instead he gets a raised eyebrow and a confused look. “You didn’t actually think I was that helpless, did you?”

_ You can’t be perfect at everything _ , almost slips out. Which is categorically false. There are many things Floyd Lawton is not perfect at: singing, keeping his mouth shut, playing nice. Hugs. But that plays right into a discussion they had last time, and he cannot dredge that back up. 

“Wouldn’t be that much of a surprise.”

Now, Floyd laughs. “Whatever, man. That shit was better than anything I would’ve come up with, so…” he nods his head in a thanks, then gets a devilish smile. “You know, a bakery would be the perfect place to find the woman — or man — of your dreams. Hallmark movie shit.”

“I’ve never seen a gay Hallmark movie.” Goddamnit did he just fucking reveal that he maybe, on more than one occasion, had one playing in the background while he cooked?  

“Have to work with me here, Flagg. Your cooking skills, they’re key to you getting laid. I think—”

“Hey, I can get laid,” he interrupts, knowing that Floyd wants him engaged. He could. He knows about Tindr and bars. He’s mostly just glad Floyd’s ignored the Hallmark comment.

“Okay, but long-term. You seem like you want long-term.”

He sighs and sinks his head into his hands. Why the fuck had he ever wanted to be alone with Floyd? Now they’re stuck like this, and Floyd’s just crazy enough he might imply some shit if Flagg ever drags another guy with them. 

“When y’all get out of prison, I’ll start it. Need workers.”

Floyd looks at him with dead, disbelieving eyes. “I’m never going to get you to do anything, am I?”

Something tells him that’s not totally true, but it’s best if that’s what’s on the table for now. Because he’s a chicken, he directs the conversation to other desserts Floyd thinks he should make. Unfortunately, it’s a huge list. But he really needs a hobby. Might as well make his entire life about the team. 

He doesn’t see Floyd for another two weeks. Waller sends him off, claiming national security requires him to go deal with some terrorists in Central City. He hates Central City, just like he hates Gotham and Metropolis. There’s superheroes there, and they tend to get possessive about cities. If he’s being honest, he can’t remember which superhero runs CC, but he’s got better things to do than deal with them, surely. Luckily, whoever’s in charge there must be out of town for the weekend, because he doesn’t run into any. 

Unfortunately, shit goes sideways and he could’ve used a superperson. The organization’s all humans, but humans with massive caches of weapons, guns and bombs and technology a bit too advanced to be bought on the street. Shit that makes you seem inhuman; all the better to commit crimes with and get away scot-free. Mostly just strength-related tech, but one of his guys gets shocked with a lightning bolt worth of electricity and another blown through a car windshield. He manages to only get super strength punched into a brick wall. 

His team gets out of it with a localized EMP that shuts down the fancy tech and without it, their team has the upper hand. He barely retains consciousness during it, passing out as soon as he can, and when he next wakes up, he’s in the hospital wrapped in bandages. June’s sitting across from him, reading a novel. 

Because of his injuries, he misses dragging Floyd to see his daughter. Not that he misses it; it’s weird to watch a serial killer be that doting to his daughter, it’s just, he’s not there, to do the deed. He’s officially fucked, and when he’s finally let out of the hospital, and they’re walking on a public street, June sucks her teeth after a long silence. This means real shit is going down.

“Floyd wanted to know why you hadn’t accompanied him last week. You know how I know this? Waller came in, smiled at you in her way, and said you were missed.”

He looks at her, then checks to make sure they’re not being followed. “She could’ve meant the special forces guys missed me.”

“She didn’t. She didn’t have to say it, I just...it feels true. Like I can feel Floyd worrying for you. Rest of the squad, too.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. They’ve never discussed the little remnants of the Enchantress. Randomly the room will heat up if June is pissed, or she’ll phase through things, or kill plants. Every time, he sweeps their apartment for bugs and hopes Waller doesn’t notice. Finally, he replies, “You know how they are. It’s, we’re like family. Waller doesn’t have anything new on me.”

June bursts into a fit of laughter. “Yes she does, but honestly, it’s probably better for the both of you if you think she doesn’t.”

“She  _ doesn’t _ .”

“Fine, lie to your ex, I see how it is. You planning on baking tonight?”

Every part of his body hurts, but he also knows that baking will get the mental hurt out. But there’s subtext to June’s question. “Am I not allowed to anymore?”

“As long as I get just as much as  _ Flooyyd _ ,” she says, sing-songing his name, “I suppose I’ll look the other way on this whole business.”

He’ll, in the future, blame his lack of a denial on his injuries and pain. Instead, he shifts the conversation to a concert June wants to drag him to, because he’s genuinely curious for potentially his first concert. 

When they get home, he immediately starts baking, as June buys their tickets and rambles on about someone cute. He supposes one of them should feel jealousy if the other moves on, but he can’t summon any. He and June are still in love; it’s just not the kind of love people write love songs about. She shifted to it quicker than he did, realizing that while she wanted and could spend her life with him, it wasn’t romantic. Lots of fancy words and discussions he felt he needed a gender studies’ card for, but he’s just glad he got to keep June and fuck over Waller. 

They end up with enough lemon-pistachio bars and pistachio cake that June’s okay with Floyd and the rest of the team getting some. He’s gotta figure out a way to make these baked goods seem like someone else’s idea, get Waller off his back. 

Waylon ends up being the one to save his ass. The next morning, when he gets to his office, there’s a very official sounding communique between Waller, his second-in-command, and a few others in the office, from when he was gone. Apparently his desserts brought some level of calm to the crocodile-man, which was appreciated enough people started talking about it. There’s no questioning about why he baked them in the first place, or his dumbass hand-feeding Floyd one, so he’s safe for now. He joins the email chain and tries his hardest to sound disappointed about being drawn into baking duty. Or buying baked goods — he’s pretty sure no one believes he has the skills to do so.

So, on his very short lunch break, he runs home and gets the bars. Waylon gets the most, having saved his ass, and again, Waylon hoards them to the side. It’s almost cute. Katana finds him almost immediately after and refuses to move until she has several. Harley, who’s allergic to nuts — that wasn’t in her file, another way Waller’s trying to kill them all — just talks to him for a little over coffee. He’s not entirely sure what their discussion’s about, but she seems satisfied by the end of it. Chato decides that because pistachios are healthy, he can have one of the bars. It seems to put him in a coma; not the intended effect, but he’ll take it. Digger makes filthy noises as he eats his, and leers at Rick until he leaves. Finally, he makes his way to Floyd’s. The man freezes when he walks in, and scans him critically.

“Had to lie to Zoe about where you were last time. Don’t think she bought it, but still.”

“She’s a smart kid,” he pauses, wondering if that meant Zoe asked. If Zoe cared and Waller knew, they’re all fucked. He hopes Floyd’s smarter than that. “I’m fine. Just got caught up by some shit.”

“You don’t look fine.”

He shrugs. “Cake or bar?”

“You fixing to fatten me up, boy? Both.”

Floyd eats while watching him all the while. He almost expects Floyd to bring up the awkward macaroon incident, but instead gets nothing. 

When he’s finished his treat, Floyd smacks his lips, then sits back, legs spread open filthily. “Tellin’ you, man, bakery. That’s where the money’s at.”

He won’t be surprised if next time he sees the team, they all start pushing this crazy idea on him. “Wish I could.”

Floyd’s smile is soft, makes nasty things creep into his mind. Slowly, he moves his hand to tip Rick’s head up into the light. Rick moves before Floyd touches him. He can’t keep letting them make mistakes like this on camera. “Is there anybody left for me to shoot?”

“I’ve gotta—I’ve gotta go,” he stumbles out.

He runs straight to the control room and convinces everyone to leave for a minute — goddamn he loves being ranking officer — and deletes the footage. It’s patchy, and for all he knows, it’s saved on some offsite storage facility. But it gives him peace of mind, at least for a moment.

For the next few days, he’s on desk duty because of his injuries. It gets him away from the squad, mostly Floyd, and he’s thankful for that. He’s not thankful for Katana. She shows up at his home one day and drops a stack of books on his kitchen counter. Loudly, which startles June. He’s pretty sure he’s the only one who notices the spark from her eyes, the temperature rising, but he screeches anyways. Katana tilts her head like she knows he’s hiding too many things at once.

“‘How to Start a Business’, ‘Homemade for Sale,’ ‘The Business of Baking’? What’s this — oh.” June’s searching through the books. 

“Floyd got to you?!”

He’s both perturbed and glad and surprised that Floyd and Katana care that much. But she just shrugs. “You got any good food? I don’t have leftovers at home.”

It’s useless to get Katana to discuss anything she doesn’t want to. He’s tried too many times. So he pulls containers out of the fridge and sets up a movie.

It’s a few days before he sees Floyd again. He’s healed a bit, and Floyd no longer looks as concerned about his injuries. They’re taking Floyd to see Zoe again, but this time, Rick has decided he’s not about to be left alone with Floyd. 

Except the guys transporting him refuse. They went with Floyd with Rick, and apparently, Floyd did his best impression — sometimes he thinks it’s an impression, other times he’s not sure — of a sociopath. And since everyone’s heard Rick has control of the squad, they smile politely and make up some bullshit about it being “logistically better” if only he’s with Floyd. 

“Trying to get out of being with me? I’m hurt.”

He’s not sure how Floyd’s heard about this while stuck in the cell, but it’s best not to engage. He can’t engage this time, he repeats in his head. But he know Floyd well enough to know he won’t cooperate.

“You get a date yet?”

“It hasn’t even been a week!” He wants to shoot himself for falling for it, but damn. He’s got some pride to protect.

“Flagg, you let me out of this place, I could get a date in an hour. Now, I know you’re not my level, but still, man.”

He grumbles and leans back against the transport’s wall. “I’ve just been hanging out with June, some of her professor friends, Katana. Not everything’s about pussy and cock. You tell Katana about your bakery plan?”

“Nah, all Chato. I think Waylon and Digger would’ve told them if she’d give them the time of day.”

So another mystery solved. Katana’s been working with Chato on meditation or some shit. He always gets ansty when she teaches him, but apparently she’s found a convert. They’re quiet for some time.

“She’s got that giant soul-taker sword, so you better listen to her, if you won’t for me.”

“I listen to you,” he mumbles out.

Floyd scoffs and closes his eyes. They could be done with the conversation, but there’s a worm in his brain and he’s an idiot and they’re almost there anyways, so he blurts it out.

“If you were out, free, I mean, would you — would I be someone you’d try to pick up?”

His mama always said his curiosity would kill him one day. Floyd’s eyes snap open, and he stares at Rick for a lot longer than necessary. He can see the sociopath on him then; there’s no emotion in his stare, just calculations. Not like he can’t turn that on occasionally too. 

Then, the transport jerks to a stop and they’re there. The heat of embarrassment scurrys off as he hurries to do his job. They get Floy — he needs to start thinking of him as Lawton — out and free, but instead of running up to her dad, Zoe runs up to him, arms out. She hugs his midsection tightly. He returns the favor. Somehow it feels right.

She lets him go and examines him critically. When everything’s to her satisfaction, she motions for him to come close, and whispers in his ear, “Don't’ do anything like that again. I don’t think my daddy could take it.”

“Uh yeah. Of course,” he stutters out, and gets wrapped in her arms again.

Floyd’s watching all of this with a soft, proud smile. When she returns to him, he ruffles her hair and asks what she told Rick. Zoe, looking the perfect teenager, ignores him and tells him she needs help with her homework. 

Rick retreats, telling one of the other guys to watch Floyd. If he manages to fit anymore images of good father Deadshot into his head, bad things are going to happen. The man’s making him go soft, and too many people have noticed. So instead, he sits in the back corner of the house and downloads Tindr and Grindr. It’s a painstaking process, to make a profile that’s interesting but would pass Waller’s test. He avoids swiping on anyone, because he’s still at work and he has some sensibilities.

When time’s up, he swipes on a few, just to find a cute face that’s not Floyd for him to think of on the way back. It takes a bit. But when he gets in the back of the transport, he’s got one that might stand up to questioning.

“The cameras,” Lawton asks when they’re locked in, a smile that’s devilish. “You got any way to short circuit them for a moment?”

“What why?”

“Do. You. Have. A. Way. To. Short. Circuit. The. Cameras?”

“Maybe—” that’s a lie, he does, “but what’s in it for me?”

“A moment without Waller watching your ass. Just a minute, Rick. It’s about Zoe.”

He shuts off the cameras almost immediately, leaving them off for several minutes. Thank god for Katana and her laughing her ass off after seeing him try to delete footage. “It’s done.”

Floyd’s smile has him thinking it’s not all about Zoe, but he’s not expecting the man to lean over and run his mouth into Rick’s. It’s a terrible kiss; they manage to time it so they just hit a bump on the road, and without hands, Floyd’s aim isn’t all it's cracked out to be. 

“I wouldn’t hit on you. You’re not flashy enough. But I’d regret it.”

A more sheepish smile has replaced the devilish one. Floyd starts to move back and Rick grabs him. Kisses him properly this time. Alarm bells are going off in his head, because this is a terriblefuckingbastard idea. Worse than June. That turned out okay, his brain says. And Floyd’s beard is the right kind of scratchy and he’s never had proper beard burn and Floyd is transitioning from soft savory kisses to predatory kind and if he doesn’t pull back now, Waller’s getting a show. Waller.

He yanks back, sees the flash of disappointment on Floyd’s face, and smiles back. “You’re ruining your own attempts to get me a date.”

“Can’t help I got game.”

This is a lie; this sort of game would only probably work on him. But let Floyd have his victories. 

“How many more missions before I get out?”

He shrugs, unsure of how to say he’s pretty sure they’re all gonna die before earning freedom. Finally, he goes with an almost-lie. “A few.”

“Well then, you better start reading up on running a business, because I fully intend for that to take off after all of this.”

“And what happens when a cute customer comes to steal me away?”

“I’ll kill them, what else?” Floyd laughs, soft and sweet. “You people haven’t tried at all to reform me, what did you expect?”

“Only if they deserve it.”

“That don’t pay the bills, darling.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

Floyd smirks at him, and while he knows none of this is gonna work out the way they want to, he lets himself fall for the feeling. You have to live in the moment, right?


End file.
